Chapter 19
WINSTON
There is either an air of impending doom in the room, or of destiny. I crouch beside Duchess like a general in battle. She is magnificent. My queen. My heart thunders with pride and panic all at once.
Scott kneels nearby, fumbling with towels like a clumsy kid. “You’re doing great, kitty,” he babbles. “Nice and easy—”
I lash my tail, glaring. Don’t talk so loud, fool. She needs calm, not your rookie pep talk.
Another cry rips from Duchess, and I press closer, licking her ear in comfort. Then I swing my gaze back to him. Towels, now. And warm water, idiot. Move those big hands for once in your life.
To his credit, he does. Maybe he can read my mind, or maybe the panic on my face is clear enough. Still, he stumbles, muttering, dropping a cloth on the floor. Focus! She’s doing the hard work. The least you can do is not screw it up.
The first kitten arrives in a rush of tiny squeaks and slick fur. My chest swells. A prince—or princess—I can’t tell yet, but mine all the same. I nudge my queen, purring fiercely, while Scott’s eyes go wide like he’s witnessing a miracle and a horror show rolled into one.
“Holy hell,” he whispers. “It’s beautiful.”
Of course it is, I hiss silently. She is mine. We did this. Not you.
But then another contraction seizes, and another kitten slips free, and Scott actually steadies the bedding, guiding towels beneath her, murmuring encouragement in a surprisingly gentle tone. My ears twitch. Maybe he isn’t entirely useless.
By the time the third arrives, I’m vibrating with pride, pacing in circles, torn between wanting to claw Scott’s face off and wanting to head-butt him for helping.
I settle for a growl. Don’t get cocky, hockey boy. You’re still on thin ice with me.
He glances at me, sweat on his brow, grinning like an idiot. “Well Winston. We’re fathers.”
I sit tall, protecting Duchess and our newborns, my voice silent but fierce. What’s this “we” business? But maybe you’re not the worst teammate after all.